


Kindness: Served Best in Small Doses

by TantalumCobalt



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Awkward!Lincoln, Bonding, Caring!May, Fluff, Gen, May is team mum, Season 3, Some angst, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:43:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TantalumCobalt/pseuds/TantalumCobalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May is the unofficial team mum. Lincoln doesn't realise that, until suddenly he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindness: Served Best in Small Doses

**Author's Note:**

> So I binge watched all of season 3 and I have so many Lincoln feels and May feels and this kind of just happened... People taking care of Lincoln is my current need because he's just so sad and adorable and in need of love. Who better than the one person he thinks might actually hate him? my muse asked. And so this was born.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Seriously, you don't even have to tell me what you think about this fic, I'd just love to hear how your day is going :)
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: After several comments pointing out flaws with the ending because Lincoln is a recovery alcoholic, I've tweaked it a tiny bit. It's nothing major and people will probably still be unhappy but I feel a bit better about it now.

May is the unofficial team mom. Lincoln doesn't realise that, until suddenly he does.

\--  
It starts with a sandwich.

Lincoln is sitting on the couch in the base living room, bbbb with the TV remote. Daisy had said something about the batteries being dead and needing to find some in inventory, but Lincoln wants to see whether his powers will let him recharge things and John (don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think-) had once said to always start small. So AA batteries.

A plate appears on the coffee table in front of him with a quiet chink and Lincoln jumps. May is standing beside the couch, arms crossed, trademark blank look in place. The inhuman frowns at her, question in his eyes.

"It's past lunchtime. You must be hungry," is all she says. Lincoln nods. Now that he's not distracted by the batteries, he realises he actually is kinda hungry.

"Thank you," he mutters, still wary around the senior agent.

May nods once and leaves. 

The sandwich looks innocent enough; ham, cheese, tomato. Standard sandwich fillings, nothing fancy. It doesn't even taste especially fantastic, but Lincoln cannot help grinning to himself as he eats it. 

May made him a sandwich. Surely that's some kind of progress in their rocky non-relationship?

(It does occur to him twenty minutes later that it might be poisoned, but he doesn't feel like he's dying so probably not...unless it's slow acting...)

\--

She finds him asleep on the couch two nights later. 

It's three-thirty in the morning and he didn't mean to fall asleep, but at the same time he kind of did. He'd gone to bed with most of the base's other occupants at quarter to eleven, curling under the covers in the room next door to Daisy's, but sleep had been short-lasting. Just before two a.m., he'd startled awake - the usual dream; a ledge, a bottle of whiskey, choking tears, John, death - and hadn't been able to stop the shaking long enough to relax and go back to sleep.

So he'd ventured out into the darkened base and settled on the couch with a movie on, volume turned low, and a glass of water since he has yet to find the whiskey stash he knows is around here somewhere. At some point, he must have dozed off to the sound of crappy late-night TV.

May shakes his shoulder gently to wake him, easily stepping aside when he jolts up swinging. "Easy," she murmurs, voice soft, and he can just make out her face in the flickering light from the TV.

"What time is it?" he asks, voice thick with sleep. He scrubs a hand over his face in an attempt to wake up more.

"Three-thirty," she responds, then, "You been here all night?"

It takes a few extra seconds for the words to filter through his tired mind before he shakes his head. "No. Woke up an hour ago, couldn't go back to sleep."

She "hmm"s and he gets the feeling she's analysing him in the half-darkness. He waits for the lecture, the scolding for creeping around base at night, the prodding for details. But none of that comes. She just nods and offers him a hand.

"You should go back to bed. Hunter will never let you hear the end of it if he finds you asleep here in the morning."

Lincoln lets her pull him to his feet and guide him out of the room, surprised that she walks beside him, hand hovering but not quite touching his arm, until they reach the room he's been allocated. Her face is its usual blank slate, but her eyes glimmer in the pale red glow of a light at the end of the corridor.

"Goodnight," she says quietly, pointedly, reaching to close the door behind him.

"Goodnight. And, um, thanks, I guess," he offers, just as quietly, before the door slides shut between them. He waits for the sound of her footsteps to disappear down the corridor, but he hears nothing. Either she's waiting outside his door - making sure that he actually goes to bed and sleeps? - or she really is as sneaky and silent on her feet as SHIELD legends would suggests.

Oh well, he thinks as he tumbles into bed, suddenly realising how late it is and how tired he really is, that's a puzzle for the morning.

(Or not. He doesn't care that much.... Does he?)

\--

The lab is state of the art. Lincoln is actually impressed. It's a secret underground base in the middle of God-knows-where; he'd been expecting caverns, not tech/scientist heaven. He's surprised when FitzSimmons (Daisy had told him that, yes, that name is an offical thing, but, no, they're not a couple yet) approach him and ask if he wouldn't mind consulting in the lab. He agrees because even though it isn't a hospital it's as close as he's probably going to get.

A day later they're chattering at him about inhuman DNA and blood work and cures. He's just beginning to realise how creepy it is that they finish each other's sentences.

"Hang on a sec," he interrupts, frowning between them. "Why the hell do you need a cure? We're not a disease."

"Yes, we know-" Simmons begins, reassuring tone in full swing.

"But not everyone-" Fitz continues. (Creepy.)

"Wants their powers," Simmons finishes. The look in her eyes, the eager half-smile on her face, tells him she only wants to do good. "We're just trying to help."

But still.

"We don't need to he fixed," Lincoln argues, folding his arms across his chest, staring the duo down. "It's not about a cure, it's about control."

He'd lost that belief for a while, especially after John, after... Anyway, Daisy had rekindled his faith in their people, in their gifts. He's not going to turn his back now.

"Yes, we understand-"

"I don't think you do." He's loosing his cool, he can feel the frustration, the anger, the hum of electricit building in his muscles, but he's been so on-edge recently that it's a struggle to rein it in. Letting everything out is just so tempting.

Not on FitzSimmoms though. He can't. They're good, they've been kind to him, they-

"Agent Campbell."

He blinks, turns around and comes face-to-face with me. "That's new," he mutters. It's the only thing he can think to say. He's never been 'Agent' before.

May just arches an eyebrow. "Busy?" she asks and from the tone of her voice he knows there's a correct answer.

"No, I was just..." He gestures vaguely, encompassing FitzSimmoms, to the lab, himself, then shakes his head. "Uh, no."

"Good." Right answer then. "Come with me."

He glances over his shoulder at FitzSimmons as he follows her out of the room. They almost look sympathetic. Almost.

"Where are we going?" he asks, matching her quick steps with long strides.

She doesn't answer but he finds out soon enough when they arrive at the gym. Lincoln hesitates by the doorway, watching as May moves to a bench and begins wrapping her hands. This is... definitely not what he was expecting. Does she seriously honk he's going to spar with her? He's seen what she can do to a man. No way in hell.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn't give him a choice in the matter, but thankfully it's not sparring she has in mind. She shows him how to properly wrap his hands, then positions him on the matt in front of a punching bag and starts teaching him how to throw his body into a punch.

"I thought the first thing you're supposed to learn when you fight is how to fall," he grumbles half-heartedly, only partially joking. Learning how to fight properly with May is surprisingly... dare he say enjoyable?

She shoves his shoulder and, caught off balance, he goes tumbling to the floor with a grunt. "Lesson learnt," she deadpans. "Now get up and hit the bag."

She's using her no nonsense, 'this is an order' voice, so (wisely) he does just that. Again and again and again until his knuckles are raw beneath the bandages. May corrects his position or his punches every now and then, but mostly she just stands to the side and watches with an odd, almost approving not-quite-smile on her face.

(He's ashamed to admit that it takes him several days, and two more punching sessions, to figure out that she's helping him vent without hurting people. He doesn't know how to feel about that realisation.)

\--

It doesn't take him long to reach the conclusion that May is a hard person to track down. She's not in the lab, or the gym, or the hangar, or the living room. The only place he hadn't dared to search yet is Coulson's office, but the Director had shut the door to take a private call twenty minutes ago so he doubts she's there.

In the end, she finds him. She's waiting for him when he returns to his room at the end of the day, leaning against the wall beside his door, looking casual in a pair of jeans and a leather jacket. He guesses she's been out.

"Mack says you've been looking for me," she opens with before he has a chance to do more than blink in surprise.

"Um, yeah." He glances around but the hallway is empty. He's not sure why he's so reluctant for anyone to overhear the conversation, but he is. Maybe it's a habit he's picked up after spending so much time with spies. Or maybe it's just because he feels kind of embarrassed.

May arches an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

He tries and fails not to fidget, running a hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck, ducking his head to avoid her narrowed gaze. "No, no.... It's just..."

"Spit it out, Campbell," she says evenly.

He bites his lip. Now that he's actually found her, he's not sure exactly what he wants to say. She's surprisingly patient about it, staying silent and watchful while he tries to straighten out his thoughts.

"You made me a sandwich," he begins a moment later, looking up to see her reaction to his words. "And I know that's not really special or anything, but then you made me go back to bed so Hunter wouldn't tease me about falling asleep on the couch, and you taught me how to beat the shit out of a punching bag so I wouldn't lose it and beat the shit out of other people, and-"

She's standing up straight now, brow creased just the smallest amount, watching him carefully. "What's your point, Campbell?" It's less of a question and more of an order.

"It helped," he mumbles with an embarrassed shrug. "So thanks."

Honestly, he'd thought she wouldn't actually understand everything he wasn't sure how to say - that it helped him feel welcome, comfortable, cared for, wanted, able to stay, like he wasn't about to choke on the overwhelming everything; that her little pieces of attention were grounding - but he's also not surprised that she does. Her stance softens and, for just a second, her blank mask fades away. 

She smiles. It's small and short-lasting, but it's there. "You're welcome."

He hears he unspoken "I've been there, I know what it's like, you're not alone". He nods, relieved, and shifts awkwardly on his feet. Now that that's over... She steps aside and he moves towards his door. When he glances over his shoulder before going inside, she's already disappearing around the end of the hallway.

That night he's plagued by more of the usual nightmares, but when he ventures out to the living area it's not empty. May is sitting on the couch, Star Wars playing on the TV, and a bottle of whiskey with two glasses on the coffee table. He sinks down onto the cushions and wordlessly accepts the drink she holds out. He doesn't drink it, though, just stares into the amber depths and reminds himself that he can't, that John wouldn't want him to, that he's better than drowning his sorrows in a bottle. 

"How'd you know?" he asks several minutes later.

She glances at him, taking a sip of her own whiskey, and there's a weight in her gaze that he didn't expect. "I didn't," she says simply. "But there's always someone."

Lincoln likes the sound of being someone. After so long on the run, having to be no one if he wanted to survive, it's a nice change. He'd been wary of SHIELD, frightened of their intentions, angry at their meddling, but at some unknown point in the last few weeks he's come to think of them as good rather than bad. Most of that shift in perspective is thanks to Daisy, but only now does he realise that it's also partly because of May.

(And to think he'd thought she wanted to kill him.)


End file.
